


Brilliancy

by Abrus



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminal Minds Setting, And Insulting, Behavioral Analysis Unit (Criminal Minds), But May Add More Because I Love Maeve Donovan, Canon-Typical Violence, Chess Metaphors, Currently Three Chapters Planned, Episode Fix-It: s08e12 Zugzwang, F/M, Intelligent Women Deserve Better, Killing Off Maeve Was Incredibly Stupid, Maeve Donovan Deserved Better, Maeve Donovan Lives, Maeve Gets A Voice, Maeve Meets the Team, Maeve and Spencer Get Their Dinner Date Damn It, Maeve's POV, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29574390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abrus/pseuds/Abrus
Summary: Brilliancy: a chess move that is not expected to provide winning results, but that ultimately proves successful.Maeve and Spencer are thrilled to get just one dinner, and that dinner changes everything.
Relationships: Maeve Donovan/Spencer Reid
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	Brilliancy

Maeve takes a deep breath and steps into the restaurant. 

She regretted the outfit almost immediately after stepping out the door; beige, and a Peter Pan collar to boot? She’d wanted to dress as herself; no makeup, no heels, the only exceptions she’d made the gray skirt and the curls around her face when usually she wears ponytails. 

She’s madly in love with a man whose face she’s never seen and she’s written a terribly revealing quote in the front of a book that now seems like an arrogant choice, and she’s got a psycho stalker somewhere in the wind, and she’s wearing  _ beige _ of all colors to the first restaurant she’s been to in almost a year. 

“Do you have a reservation, ma’am?” the impeccably dressed hostess is asking. Sheer black stockings, slim black dress, and pearls. The picture of sophistication even while working in food service. Maeve swallows. Dr. Spencer Reid is going to be  _ so _ disappointed. 

She contemplates telling the hostess that she’s made a terrible mistake and turning around and fleeing into the night. “It’s under Spencer Reid.” 

The hostess seems to pick up on some of her nervous energy because she gives Maeve a conspiratorial wink. “You’re the second of your party to arrive. This way, please.” 

Maeve had let Spencer pick the restaurant. She had specified somewhere quiet, not crowded, low lighting, and near a window so she could see any suspicious characters that might come into the building. Vegetarian options, which he’d been surprised by, and then she’d made a truly asinine joke about dissections and he’d actually laughed. Somewhere reservation-only, with the table under his name. 

She has to admit, he’s done an impeccable job. 

Her heart feels as though it’s about to go into cardiac arrest, which is a ridiculous worry for a woman her age with her medical history, but for a moment she believes it might. 

_ Not ready, not ready, not ready-  _

Then the hostess turns a corner and a man sitting at a table for two near the window lurches to his feet. One moment, Spencer Reid is an MRI scan, a vague blur with the most soothing voice known to man that exists only in her mind, and the next she’s finally, finally drinking him in. A buttoned cardigan just like hers, wool sweater vest, satin collared shirt, mismatched tie, trim trousers. Extraordinary height compared to her below-average measurement. Long hair, which almost makes her heart stop completely because she’s always loved long hair on men. Kind dark eyes. Lips that quiver once before he begins rambling. 

“Maeve! Uh, hi. Hello. Gosh, you’re even more… Um, I’m Spencer. Would you like to sit? We should sit. Right?” 

The hostess watches this sacred moment unfold with thinly veiled amusement. She turns back to brush by Maeve with a loud “I’ll let you two get settled,” but mutters, “Don’t worry honey, we get a lot of blind dates in here. If he’s a creep, just ask for a croissant for dessert and I’ll call a cab for you, but I think you’ve lucked out.” 

Maeve doesn’t hear a word. Something about a crescent.

Words are stuck in her throat. Rather than sitting, or even smiling, she does the most idiotic thing possible and launches herself into Spencer’s arms. 

He catches her with a tiny surprised sound, and for a moment she thinks she’s done something resoundingly awkward, but then his arms wrap around her too and he smells incredible, like the oldest book in the world and mint and a little like leather polish? He hugs her tightly, and she feels him press the tip of his nose into her hair and wishes it was its natural color. 

“Sorry. I’ve just been thinking about meeting you for so long…” 

“Don’t apologize!” he says quickly. “Here…” 

She reluctantly breaks away from him and allows him to guide her to her chair, which he gallantly pulls out for her. No one has ever done that in her life, and she always figured she’d have mixed feelings about it, but instead she’s filled with warmth. He hasn’t stopped looking at her, and she can only hope he’s as impressed by her as she is by him, beige and all. 

“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” she blurts. “You’re so-” 

“Lanky?” 

“No. Beautiful.” 

She doesn’t think she could have stunned him further if she’d solved the Riemann hypothesis. 

He blinks a few times, his cheeks turning a delicious shade of pink, and then pulls a small gift box seemingly out of thin air. “I brought something for you.” 

“Oh! Me too.” She reaches for the bag she must have dropped when she saw him, and quickly they trade gifts across the table. 

He goes right to opening the bag, so she lifts the lid of the box and gasps. She claps a hand to her mouth in a most unbecoming fashion, because lying there in his gift box is the same edition of the same book she purchased for him. 

She opens the cover with trembling fingers, and can’t stifle a small sob. Written in messy handwriting on the interior cover;  _ The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our own image. - Thomas Merton _

Same book. Quotes from the same philosopher. 

Her astonished eyes meet his across the table, and it’s as though time slows down and speeds up all at once. She’s never felt this before, this heavy sort of electricity, tension so thick no knife on earth could cut it. She’d thought it was a myth, actually. An emotional device only to be found in the plots of her favorite romantic comedies. 

The waitress, perfectly timed, appears then and begins to introduce herself, so before Maeve can say anything too stupid like  _ how are you real _ or  _ let’s elope right now, screw appetizers, _ she brushes one lone tear off her cheek she hadn’t realized was there, and hastily picks up the menu. She must meet Spencer’s eyes fifty times in two minutes as they order. No clue whatsoever as to what she actually chose to eat. 

His hand brushes hers on top of the table and she firmly links their fingers. His face lights up in a way she wants to watch on a loop in her head forever. 

“So… you were on a case, before?” 

“Yeah. We just got in today.” 

“Was it bad?” 

“They’re all bad.” 

Maeve nods, and wonders how he can stand it. Wonders what exactly the job of a BAU agent entails. His brain scan had told her a lot of things; his medical chart had told her the rest. Extensive torture, trauma, forced addiction… a sharp pain goes through her chest at the thought and she contemplates scheduling an appointment with a cardiologist, stalker be damned. 

“Speaking of which, and I hate to ask, but has there been any more contact?” There’s something different on his face now, something deeply analytical and a little fierce. 

Maeve sighs. “No. Not for two weeks. I…. can we just not talk about it? Not for the rest of dinner, at least.” 

He nods vigorously, instantly changing the subject to the history of the restaurant they’re sitting in, the various uses for the ingredients in the dish she’d ordered - eggplant parmesan, apparently - and then, all the health benefits and drawbacks of vegetarianism. 

“I’m sorry. I’m rambling, aren’t I?” 

“Are you? I like it. All that knowledge, it’s my favorite thing about you. I could listen to you talk all day. All week. About anything, really.” 

There’s that dazed look on his face again, and he squints, perhaps wondering if she’s a hallucination; she knows he worries about those. She’s beginning to wonder the same thing. Is this love a shared delusion? It can’t possibly exist. 

Their food comes, and the conversation continues. He never hogs the conversation, regardless of how long he could probably talk about any given subject. Their dinner turns into a miniature trivia game as they try to stump each other with vague facts. Spencer knocks his glass of water over in a fit of passion during a debate on 15th century book illumination techniques, and turns so red she laughs until their table neighbors glare at them both. 

“Any dessert?” their waitress asks, and Maeve shakes her head. Spencer’s face falls. 

“I know a great place for hot chocolate, just around the corner,” she’s quick to say and his face clears.

“You know, a lot of people credit the Dutch for bringing hot chocolate to North America, but the Aztecs had hot chocolate long before then and I think they deserve the most credit.” 

Spencer insists on paying, citing his mother’s instilling of proper dinner etiquette, and Maeve holds his gift box with the precious book tucked inside close to her chest with one arm, taking his hand in hers with the other. 

The night is cold, but not painfully so. The sky is clear and the air is crisp and she takes a deep breath, running her eyes over all the glittering lights of the city around them. It’s been so long since she’s been out on the sidewalk like this, and something inside her aches. There’s a brief stab of panic, but Spencer squeezes her hand and it disappears. She’s safe with him. 

The coffee shop they enter stays open late; it had been a favorite of hers before the stalker, when she could sit in a cozy booth with a giant cup of something hot and caffeinated and type the night away with her research. Spencer orders a flat white, which both impresses and disturbs her this late in the evening without any work to justify it - his poor circadian rhythm - but he takes several sips from her mug of hot chocolate when the order fills. She feels a blush working its way up her chest, thinking his lips have touched where hers have. 

There’s classical music playing over the speakers in soft tones. That’s the topic of their next conversation, and she’s proud of herself when she manages to recommend some more contemporary pieces he hasn’t heard yet. His hand never leaves hers on the table, and he hangs on every word as she mentions covers of modern pop songs done in the classical style that she thinks he’d find amusing. 

The coffee shop has to run them out they stay so long. Spencer hesitates on the corner, precipitation that’s almost snow clinging to the ends of his hair. Maeve can’t help herself; she reaches up and brushes it back, running her fingers through the waves. She’s known him on the physical plane for around five hours and she’s already doing mental Punnett squares, hoping desperately any offspring of theirs inherits his wild waves. Hers has always fallen flat. 

“I know we said as much in the quotes we chose to put in the book,” he begins, licking his lips and a bizarre, tingling sensation sweeps through her entire body. There, on the corner and in plain view under the streetlight, under sleet that really shouldn’t be romantic, she leans forward and presses her lips to his. 

It’s a quick kiss, there and gone, because she's breathless and has to lean back to suck in air. 

Enough to say, “I know. I love you, too.” 

His eyes fill with tears; she’s astounded to see so much emotion from someone so logical. He says, “I love you, Maeve, I do. More than I ever thought possible.” 

Spencer kisses her there on the sidewalk until a group of teenagers jeer at them from a passing car, and she breaks away, laughing. 

“It’s so late, what are they even doing out?” he mutters grumpily.

“I don’t want to go back to my apartment,” she blurts. His eyes widen, and she quickly stares at her shoes. 

“I didn’t mean to be too forward,” she whispers. “I don’t mean… we don’t have to do anything. We could just hang out? And then sleep? I’m just not ready to say goodbye to you.” 

“You’re welcome to stay any time. Of course. Anything. Just, uh, do you think it’s safe?” 

She shrugs, reckless and touch-starved and uncaring, completely consumed with the thought of crawling into Spencer Reid’s  _ bed _ , even if just to sleep. “Only one way to find out.” 

They hail a cab  _ together _ and sliding into the backseat with him is the most delicious feeling she’s ever felt. She sits as close to him as possible, and he buckles her seatbelt for her, citing cab-involved accident statistics under his breath, and she kisses him on the cheek for his trouble. The rest of the ride is quiet, just them and the cab-driver’s irritable mutterings about the weather, and the sound of sleet hitting the vehicle. She watches the neighborhoods slide by with interest until they reach a non-descript apartment building. 

They take the elevator in silence, but she can practically feel the nervous tension vibrating throughout his body. His hands fumble the keys so severely she plucks them from his fingers, winks at him, and opens the door herself. She notes vaguely that he has three deadbolts.

“Well. Here it is. Not much, but something. Do you, uh, want anything? To drink, I mean?” 

“I’m fine, thanks,” she answers with a shrug, more focused on studying his apartment. Green walls, an interesting colorful rug on the floor, and books stacked on every available surface. A modest, undecorated kitchen that looks as though it’s never been cooked in. A worn sofa. A small television in one corner that’s steadily collecting dust. The world’s smallest hallway, containing two doors; a bedroom and bathroom, presumably. 

“Is it cliché of your girlfriends to ask what an FBI profiler would think of your own space?” she asks, biting back a smile. He’s still standing by the door, watching her observe. 

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never brought a woman here. Or, anywhere, really.” 

Her eyebrows shoot up. A man this tall, this brave, this intelligent, with all these books and  _ that _ hair and he’s never brought anyone home? 

“You’ve never dated?” she asks and he frowns. 

“I’ve had… romantic interests, before, I suppose, but none of them really went anywhere.” Before she can reply, he tacks on, “You?” 

Maeve frowns and turns her eyes back to his bookshelf because that’s easier. “I didn’t date in high school, really. I went on a couple of dates here and there in college but most guys weren’t… well. They were intimidated, I guess, by my intelligence. I always feel so arrogant saying that, but it’s the truth. I was never interested in women that way, though sometimes I wonder on a clinical level if they would have had the same aversion.” 

She bites her lip and adds, “And then, Bobby.” 

“Bobby?” Spencer’s voice is sharp and she winces. 

“Yeah. Bobby. We started dating my last year of undergrad. I went straight to a PhD program after graduation, but he went to work. He asked me to move in with him, he was going to get a place right next to the university, and… I should have said no. I knew even at that point he wasn’t  _ the one _ , but I was young and scared and broke and my mom had just gotten diagnosed with cancer. I didn’t want to ask for money. Bobby offered to pay for rent and utilities and I thought  _ true love _ was a myth. No one had ever  _ tolerated _ me like Bobby. So I said yes. It was a terrible mistake. It was like a switch flipped in him. He became incredibly controlling, verbally and emotionally abusive. My parents despised him. He asked me to marry him in the  _ worst _ way, this super crowded park during a family reunion. Everyone was staring, I was so uncomfortable, but I knew if I said no and humiliated him in front of everyone it would be hell dealing with him and a huge breakup, so. I said yes. I regretted it the moment I said it, and the next day-” 

Maeve cuts off, realizing with all the force of a physical blow something she hadn’t thought of before. “The next day the first letter from the stalker arrived. A note on my desk at work. I thought it was harassment over some funding I’d received. It read,  _ YOU DON’T DESERVE THIS. _ All capital letters. I tossed it in the trash. Over the next month, the harassment got so intense, it was clear it was a stalker. I dyed my hair from blonde to brown. It didn’t help. They sent photos of Bobby and me out grocery shopping, even. It was almost a relief to use the stalking as an excuse to break things off with him. We were only engaged for about a month.” 

Spencer is staring at her with an unreadable expression, his mouth opening and closing several times. She winces. Finally, he settles on, “You used to be blonde?” 

“Reddish blonde, yeah. I miss it a lot.” 

He nods, thinking hard. She crosses the room to sink onto his couch. “Are you upset?” 

“Not at all. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve never really had extreme protective urges over another person besides my mother, and my team, but that’s not true with you. All I want is for you to be safe and happy and it infuriates me that whoever the hell Bobby is treated you so poorly. And I want to wring the neck of anyone who thinks you don’t deserve all the accolades in the world, because you’re clearly brilliant. And whoever the hell this guy is that’s stalking you… I want to catch him. More than I’ve ever wanted to catch almost any unsub.”

He lists his irritations almost methodically, and the tone makes her smile. She holds her hand out and he responds almost immediately, toeing his shoes off by the front door. His socks are pink and green and don’t match each other or anything else he’s wearing. She loves him deeply, dearly. 

“I’ve never felt this way before, with anyone,” she says. “I didn’t think it was possible.” 

“I feel the same way.” 

He kisses her, and her elation at the feeling hasn’t ebbed. His tongue brushes hers. She barely resists the urge to crawl into his lap, to strip him of his soft cardigan and a few other pieces of clothing besides. 

“Come to bed with me?” he asks, his voice nearly breaking in the middle. 

Shivers crawl up and down her spine. Maeve presses her thighs together and nods and reminds herself this is technically their first date. 

“I have some pajama bottoms,” he says nervously, flicking the light switch after the few steps down the hall. She studies his bedroom curiously; plain furniture, large bed to accommodate his height, weighted blanket spread across the mattress fitted with soft sheets. More books. Prints of geometrical configurations on the walls. One lamp within arm’s reach of what is presumably his side of the bed, since there’s only one nightstand. With a ridiculous little thrill, she realizes her side of the bed is naturally available. 

“I hate sleeping in pants. I have a slip, underneath. I can just sleep in that, if it’s okay with you.” 

Spencer swallows, gestures vaguely toward the bed, and escapes into the bathroom with a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a silly graphic t-shirt featuring Charles Darwin riding a Galapagos tortoise. Grinning to herself, Maeve slips out of her cardigan, top, skirt, and tights and folds everything neatly, sitting her clothes in the corner of his room. She crawls into his bed, trying very hard not to be creepy by sniffing his pillows and blanket and failing miserably. She drops the corner of his sheet when he comes back into the room, eyes roving over her in a way she’s too shy to describe as worshipful. 

“Can I invite you into your own bed?” she asks coquettishly. 

He makes a sound like choking, and then he’s crawling in next to her. Surprisingly, he scoops her into his arms and pulls her into his chest immediately, reaching behind him only to turn the lamp off. A nightlight she didn’t notice before flickers to life in the outlet on the far wall; a perfect model of the moon in miniature. 

She presses sleepy kisses to Charles Darwin splayed across his chest, to his neck, behind his ear. His fingers are reverent in her hair, sliding down her back. She wants to stay awake. She wants to make their first sleepover sexy and titillating and memorable, but she hasn’t felt so secure in over a year. Not in a long time, really, even before the stalker. Sleeping has been difficult for her since undergrad, her brain too busy to turn off for any length of time. Now it’s hard to think of anything other than the fact that the minty smell she picked up on earlier was apparently the remnants of his mouthwash. 

As though he can read her mind, he says, “We’ll have to get you a toothbrush, for when you stay over. That’s what couples do, right?” 

“Right. As always. Love you,” she whispers, and then she’s asleep. 

When she wakes, she’s confused, because apparently Spencer’s bedroom curtains are the kind that block out sunlight. She can’t tell what time it is, exactly, but the room is definitely lighter than when they went to sleep regardless of the curtains. She reaches across the bed, expecting to feel him, and is moderately alarmed to find the sheets cool, but then she smells burning and muttered curses coming from the kitchen and she giggles her way to wakefulness. 

She doesn’t bother with her clothes so early in the morning, but she does pilfer a thick pair of socks from Spencer’s drawer- he mismatches them on purpose, it seems- and hopes her thievery and thin silver slip doesn’t offend him. She slips into his bathroom, just as plain as his bedroom, and uses her finger to brush her teeth. His back is turned when she makes her way to the kitchen and it appears that an unsub, as he calls them, has bombed his kitchen using flour and eggs. There’s a doughy substance everywhere, and smoke waffles through the air.

“I was trying for pancakes,” he shrugs sheepishly, seeing her out of the corner of his eye but still preoccupied with the steaming skillet. “I don’t know why I’m so bad at cooking. In theory, it’s just like chemistry.” 

“ _In_ _theory_ being the operative phrase.”

“Can you cook?” 

“I can, and I could, but watching you struggle is pretty cute.” 

This gets him to turn around, and when he sees her standing in the morning sunlight in nothing but her slip and his socks, he drops the skillet right on his foot and jumps back, truly swearing now. She’s laughing very hard at his expense when it sounds; a furious rattling of his door even with three deadbolts, several bangs as though someone is pounding their fists against it, and then the sound of feet sprinting away. 

Maeve’s blood turns to ice. She thinks she says Spencer’s name, panicked eyes turning to him and truly terrifying images of him bloody and bruised in her head. She was a fool to think the stalker could be gone, to think she could be this happy without any sort of consequence. 

He’s already in agent mode, which she would be interested to see if this weren’t so terrifying. He gestures her back toward the kitchen, and she crouches down next to his cabinets while he pulls - is that a revolver?! - from the small entryway table next to his front door. 

Perfectly trained and practiced, Spencer brings the gun up to point toward the ceiling with one hand and slowly unlocks the deadbolts with the other. She watches, trembling, as the door swings open and he glances in either direction down the hall. 

“I think they’re gone. Maeve. I don’t want you to see this, but I think you should.” 

He turns, his eyes incredibly worried. She takes his outstretched hand and stands, sliding on shaking legs across the floor to peer around his shoulder. 

Papered from floor to ceiling across from Spencer’s door and between his neighbors' doors are photos of her; ones from almost a year ago, ones from when she’d been engaged to Bobby for that one ill-fated month, ones from her lab at work, ones more recently of her in disguise when out for essentials. But there’s also ones of Spencer speaking on a payphone, ones of Spencer heading into the BAU headquarters, ones of them on their date last night. In some, their faces are scratched out. In others, blood seems to smear across the edges. 

And in the middle, a word painted in that same sticky substance;  _ ZUGZWANG. _

“Maeve,” Spencer says, and she hears him as though he’s standing at the opposite end of a tunnel. “Maeve, I know you don’t want this, but I have to call my team.” 

But she doesn’t respond, because she’s seen the most recent picture; the only one that’s truly time-stamped, announcing in bright orange that it had been taken only forty-three minutes ago. 

Her parents, tied to chairs, gagged and bleeding, the camera zoomed in so far as to not give away any of their surroundings. 

“Zugzwang,” she whispers. “It’s a chess term.” 

And then she collapses to the floor outside of Spencer’s door. 


End file.
